Randy

Randy lived on the corner and was friendly with everyone. He was always standing outside surrounded by people. "I grew up here, in that brick building across the street," he said, pointing.

When I cut my hair short he said, "I used to cut hair with nail clippers when I was in the tank. It took a while but we had time."

Randy would often be seen holding his infant grand-daughter in his arms waving to everyone out on the corner while wearing bunny slippers and black and yellow plaid pajama pants.

One year three pairs of new black cotton khaki school pants were delivered for my husband and they were swiped off the front porch within minutes.

Over time I learned that Randy stole from everyone in the neighborhood. He'd get his thugs to chase the UPS trucks on foot or on bicycle and then grab whatever package was left on the porch.

My neighbor, Josie told me she had a new mattress stolen from her foyer and within minutes spotted the guys loading it into Randy's apartment. She had a perfect view of them through the gap between the buildings.

"I marched right over and demanded my mattress back and when Randy said he didn't have it, I walked into his apartment and found it myself. I have a black belt in karate," Josie said. "Nobody messes with me."

One evening in December after dinner we heard gunshots. The neighborhood learned that Randy had been shot in the arm and his brother Mork was injured too. We figured that the brothers had finally double crossed the wrong guy.

Randy was immediately told by his landlord, Mr. Prince, to move out. "We can't have this here!" Mr. Prince said to Randy, outraged. I couldn't help wondering what took the landlord so long. 

Randy didn't go far, a mile and a half down the road. Now occasionally we'll see him driving, his six foot frame folded into a bright orange plastic electric Barbie mobile, cruising along the city sidewalks. The hood is decorated with a huge silver fuzzy glittering mustache. He makes the rounds delivering and purchasing questionable substances.